Love Spell

by Crowe, Stan

  “There’s plenty of water,” Jane had said.

  Yes, Clint thought. Plenty to hide the body of a skinny little redhead detective. And then there was nothing.

  NINETEEN

  Clint had no idea how much time had passed since the boot to the face. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. A few seconds of chaotic confusion followed, and then his vision returned, revealing Jane’s heel planted firmly in his solar plexus.

  Jane? His thoughts cleared instantly. Wait, what? Sully! Where is she?

  “Gah!” he yelled, shoving Jane off. “Sully!” He jumped to his feet, but crashed again as Jane hooked a foot around his ankle. He kicked free and was back on his feet in a heartbeat. There might still be a chance to save…

  Violent splashing echoed through the back door. Two subdued pops and a cry cut the still of the early morning, and then all was silent again.

  “Sully…”

  Suddenly, his whole world shrank to the mournful notion that Lindsay Sullivan was floating face down in the Puget Sound.

  Guilt cascaded over him. All that time wasted on goading her with witticisms and snide remarks. Was it really a surprise she’d finally turned “ice queen” on him last night? Did he seriously believe that a single, fancy dinner and some lame jokes would undo everything else he’d done? She’d been very kind through her coldness, and he admired how well she’d handled the case—despite him.

  And now she was gone.

  Hands tightened around his throat, but he didn’t bother to fight it. He let himself go limp, and listened to Jane gloat about her prowess; had he really thought, she asked, that he could hide from her?

  “Oh, Clint,” she crooned, “I always thought you were so much smarter than that! Certainly, you were supposed to be so smart that you wouldn’t reject me. You think I did not see the way you had your eyes on me, even when we were children on the playground? Do you think I did not hear from your sister the secrets you shared with her about me? Silly, silly, Clint.

  “But now—now, my dear—I suppose I’ll have to enjoy your corpse, instead.”

  Without releasing her grip, she turned his head to face her, and squatted beside him, appraising him with steely eyes. “You never should have dismissed me, Clint. I would have given you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams.” Her hand snaked down across his bare torso, but his mind was so numb he didn’t even shiver.

  “You and me,” she whispered. “It would have been wonderful, Clinton. I would have borne your dynasty, and my father would have welcomed you into the family business with open arms. We would have had wealth. Power! Each other!”

  Jane rose sinuously to her feet, dragging Clint up by his chin. “And you gave it all up. And for what? Some cheap whore in a business suit?” Jane’s eyes narrowed fiercely. “What did she offer you, Clint?” she hissed. “Was she… better than me? Did she satisfy you in some way you thought I could not?”

  He stood there silently, Jane’s words bouncing off him like annoying pellets of hail from the darkening sky closing around his mind. She went on, talking at him, examining him with her hand, even smothering him with heated kisses, but it was all like smoke in the night, and it was becoming annoying.

  “Just get on with it,” he muttered after she pulled away from a long draw on his lips.

  “What?”

  “The corpse bit. You said you’re going to enjoy my corpse. Go for it. You’re starting to bore me.”

  Jane frowned momentarily and then smirked, and pressed her nose into his. “Are you certain, love? I’ve had men beg for me. I’ll give you a final chance to enjoy me in ways they’d kill for.”

  Clint merely shrugged. “Eh.”

  Jane’s nostrils flared, and she shot a punch into his bruised ribs that felt like a pile driver, forcing a cough from him. “Such pitiful last words.” She pulled a black blade from a concealed sheath and pressed it against his neck. “I’ll make this clean. I don’t want my prize ruined too much by death.”

  Clint closed his eyes, and summoned up the image of Sullivan’s sapphire eyes, one last time.

  Death wasn’t as bad as he expected. He heard a sharp crack and a light sizzling sound, and then the sound of his body hitting the floor. Only, he didn’t feel himself hit. Then again, that was no surprise; he was dead. He opened his eyes and saw his first, real angel standing before him. Silhouetted by the morning sun, the angel had the kind of figure you only saw in your dreams, her curves obvious even beneath what looked like boardroom attire. But where were her wings? And why was she was holding a Taser?

  “Molly?”

  The angel didn’t answer immediately, but instead moved quickly to Jane’s prone form, and cuffed her wrists behind her back. The heavenly being knelt hard on Jane’s lumbar region, and slapped a second pair of cuffs around her former friend’s ankles. Jane moaned softly for several seconds, and then snapped out of the daze and began screaming obscenities at Molly.

  “It’s nothing personal, Jane,” Molly said. “Thank you, though, for making the case for conviction easier. Assault with a deadly weapon and intent to murder will earn you some real time.”

  “You set this up, you bi—”

  “You have the right to remain silent, Miss Li,” Molly interrupted. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”

  While Molly continued rattling off the Miranda rights, Clint bolted out the back door. Jane’s cronies lay motionless and bleeding on the sand. Sullivan was nowhere to be seen. He paused, vigorously scanning the beach in the weak morning light. There, not twenty yards out, lying half in the water, a human-shaped lump rose from the beach amidst random pieces of driftwood. Clint rushed past the dead men, fumbled the phone from his pocket, and dialed 911.

  Don’t let her be dead. Please, please don’t let that girl be dead.

  Through the phone, a calm, female voice said, “Nine-one-one emergency. What is the nature of your emergency?” Clint didn’t answer. The form on the beach lurched violently, once, then twice, and then began an awkward roll along the beach, angling as best it could toward the sand. The 911 dispatcher said “Hello” again.

  “Uh,” Clint said. “It looks like the emergency is over. Sorry. Bye.” He hung up, and raced to the miracle he saw. He knelt beside her, and noticed a rag had been stuffed deep into her mouth. Her hands and feet were bound with extra long zip ties, and even in the wan light he could see where the flesh had been rubbed raw beneath them.

  “Sully! Oh thank all things holy! For a minute you had me worried I’d need to contact next of kin.”

  She mumbled something he couldn’t understand, but that had a decidedly annoyed tone.

  “Right, right. Let’s get you taken care of here. Okay, now pretend you’re a mannequin with a really big mouth. I’m going to un-gag you, and I think we should treat it a bit like surgery, all things considered. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Mannequins don’t nod.”

  She scowled.

  “They don’t do that either. Hold still. Let’s get this taken care of.” Slowly, he reached between her lips, and grasped the rag between his fingers. The effort took a few attempts, as the rag kept slipping from his grip, but after half a minute, he extracted the offending cloth. All the while, he was hyper aware of her proximity. He liked it more than he expected. Dangerously more.

  The gag finally popped free, and Clint took a giant step backward, fighting the urge to help her up and see to her well-being. “Are you alright?” he asked. “What happened?”

  Sullivan spat discretely into her shoulder, and made some muffled gagging sounds. “For starters, I learned why normal people don’t eat socks. And…”

  A small laugh bubbled up through Clint, cutting Sully off. In less time than it took to say “punchline,” the chuckle billowed into a full-blown belly laugh.

  “It wasn’t that funny, Clint.”

  His laughter continued, until he was doubled over and kneeling on the rough
beach.

  “Well, I’m glad you have such a robust sense of humor about this,” she said coldly. “It’s nice to know you find my near-death experience so amusing. Now, can we do something about these zip ties, please? I’m positive I’ve lost all circulation to my extremities.”

  Clint shook his head, as tears streamed down his cheeks. He caught his breath long enough to sputter out, “I know! I know it’s not f-funny, b-but…” and he dissolved into laughter again. Then, without warning, he embraced her tightly. He didn’t care about the stupid Touch. She was infected anyway, and he had never been so glad to see anyone alive in his life.

  She gave the usual response to the Touch, but through his cackling heard her murmur, “Are you really sure you wanted to do that, Clint?”

  Clint didn’t let go. She really, honestly felt good in his arms. “Of course I wanted to do that,” he said, and hugged her again. “You’re not dangerous when you’re zip tied.”

  She tried to jerk away, but bound as she was, she could only flop around a little. “I can’t believe you just said that!”

  He shrugged, but was still laughing. “I’ll say it again if you really want me to.”

  Her jaw went slack, and then clenched again. “You are unbelievable.”

  Clint ran a hand back through his hair. “You know it, baby.”

  Through grinding teeth she growled, “I am sick of you!” She thrust her forehead into his.

  It hurt worse than she expected. He flinched away, and then reflexively, lightly jabbed a finger into her shoulder.

  She gasped again. “I can’t believe you would stab a woman!”

  He leaned in a second time, and whispered, “I poked your shoulder, hon. I don’t attack girls.”

  She brought her knees up to hit him in the back. She mostly succeeded. He poked her other shoulder. Lindsay flailed again. Poke. Her. Him. Her—but this time, Clint stopped her mid-motion. She struggled against his grasp, fury in her eyes.

  “I hate you,” she hissed.

  “I know,” he said quietly. And then he pressed his lips into hers.

  In younger days, Lindsay’s dreams of adventure sometimes had her bound and gagged, waiting on the hero to save her. That fantasy got crossed off her list as soon as Jane’s thugs had forced her hands together and pulled the zip ties to almost tourniquet tight. It was bad enough they had the gall to toss her in the water, but they hadn’t even done a good job of it—they flopped her gracelessly in feet first, and only up to her waist. At least they’d been kind enough to drop dead immediately afterward, but then that was probably from the muted gunshots Lindsay had heard. The thought that she was next to die was logical, so she froze, lying as still as possible for what seemed like forever. Despite her thick bathrobe, the water systematically chilled her feet, her calves, and her thighs. It was working on sucking away the rest of her body heat until she recognized that the commotion behind her was coming from the house. Cold, tired, and more than a little confused, she reckoned she was probably safe to at least get herself out of the frigid waters. After some awkward lurching, she was able to flop herself over (all too much like a beached whale). The sand got in her face, and she flopped onto her back again as quickly as possible. The momentum helped her continue the roll-flop-roll action, and she was even able to adjust her aim a few degrees toward the house. There was still the matter of getting herself untied, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

  And then he was there. Like, right there.

  Clint ungagged her with more delicacy than she thought possible. And then, after she’d taken out a little frustration on him for his annoying remarks, he came back with the right answer: a burning kiss.

  Her head seemed to explode in the best, possible way. Alarms rang in her brain, warning her that she was giving in to a man, but she silenced them all in a snap. His mouth moved perfectly across hers, and countless nights of tears evaporated in this moment she had waited for nearly half her life. The conflagration of his magic “Touch” scorched her more than ever, but even as she lost herself in it she felt her conscious merge into something so much larger. A small, steady undercurrent of real, satisfied love flowed through. Memories poured into her mind, starting with the first time she’d caught sight of him on the bus, and spiraling downward to the letter where he’d brought her to the pinnacle of happiness, and then smashed her with a five-word declaration of love for another girl. That didn’t matter anymore. If he was kissing her now, despite all he said to the contrary, despite the way he’d used her in the past, this was real. At last Clint Christopherson was finally, totally hers.

  There followed a sensation very much like being torn from one’s body. Her lips were suddenly cold and naked, and the inferno he provided was doused in a cruel instant. Strength flooded from her like a waterfall, and she dropped back against the sand. She hadn’t even realized that her body had risen to meet his kiss. After a few moments, her heart squeezed as she recognized that Clint wasn’t helping her off the ground. She cast a pained look up toward him, and though he was still within arm’s reach, he may as well have been a mile away. He was panting, his gorgeous hair mussed, his eyes like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. He stood, and began to walk away.

  “I’ll… I’ll be right back, Sully.”

  “No!” she cried, unable to help herself. She craved him. She needed him more than breath, and fought to get to her feet. He would not escape.

  He stopped, and halfway looked back. “I can’t… can’t do this.” He puffed as though he’d finished a sprint. “This… isn’t real.”

  Lindsay stared at him. “What are you talking about? Clint, it doesn’t get more real than this. I know this is sudden, but I’ve seen it in your eyes. It’s okay if you want me.” She bit her lip to keep the words in, but surrendered after a breath or two before quietly adding, “Because I want you too.”

  He shook his head. “That’s the problem. You don’t really want me. You want the feel of the Touch. The curse. I told you it was like a drug. I was an idiot to have done what I just did. I figured… I figured that since you were already infected, what harm could it do? But I knew better. Michelle taught me more than enough about that. I knew better.” Defeat crossed his face.

  “Who’s Michelle?” she leered. She pivoted to her side, and tried to get her knees under her. Maybe she could inchworm her way back to the house? The determination to have him gave her all sorts of strength she didn’t know she had. Clint started shimmying sideways, and she saw a hint of fear in his eyes.

  “My ex,” he responded. “She was before Jane. She… Never mind,” he said. “The point is that you are not yourself. No matter how much I want this to go somewhere, until I’m free it’s going to end up the same way it did with her, with Jane, and with every other woman unlucky enough to have been Touched. It’s not fair to me, and it’s not even fair to you.” He looked sharply away at the ground. “Sorry, Sully. I never should have kissed you.”

  Her pulse count soared, and her vision was suddenly tinged red. “You… are rejecting me?”

  Clint shrugged. Of all the responses he could have given, he chose to simply shrug? He would not refuse her again. Especially not with some idiot shrug! Bald ire bled into her lust, and she lunged at him with all the vigor she could muster. The result was pathetic; she plopped back into the sand like a fool.

  “I have to reject you, Sully,” he said as his shimmy turned into a walk. “You don’t have to believe me, but this is how it has to be. I can’t lead you on anymore. I wish I could say this was real—honest to anything I do. But it’s not, and I’m not the kind to give a girl false hope. You don’t love me and, right now, I can’t love you. I’m sorry,” he muttered, turning and hastening away.

  “I’ve loved you since the tenth grade,” she called out at his back. “You already led me on!” Her rage shoved shame aside. Humiliation was a small price to pay if it meant keeping him. Even through the clutches of his curse, she could still feel all the longing, the care she’d onc
e reserved for him. She finally had him. She had to have him. He had kissed her. Whether or not she was cursed, he wasn’t. That must mean something.

  “This is real, Clinton James Christopherson! You know you love me, and I’ve always loved you! Since long before this stupid ‘Touch’ or whatever you call it!”

  He stopped, and turned slowly around and Lindsay put on her best “stricken” face. “Can you honestly say you don’t remember me?” she pled in her “little girl” voice. “Can you honestly say that all that we shared, all those years ago, meant nothing?”

  Clint squinted at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “It was your senior year of high school. You used to draw such amazing things in your notebook—the same notebook you wrote all those short stories in. You know, the ones about your romantic dreams?”

  Clint edged slightly closer. “How… did you know about those?”

  “I read every one of them, Clint,” she whispered. “Saw every drawing. And I loved them all.” She inched closer, and he didn’t budge. “Do you have any idea how gripping those stories were for me? To read about that poor, poor boy being abused by that thoughtless wench? Ditched for a scrawny underclassman with crazy hair and bad acne?”

  “You… read…?”

  “I’m Lindsay, Clint. Lindsay Sullivan. From Bus Twelve. We got off at the same stop. I went left, you walked on.”

  “Lindsay…” She could see the realization dawning in his eyes. His jaw worked silently as the morning sun finally peaked through the Seattle clouds. A shaft of light illuminated the top of his head like some kind of bizarre halo. Or was it a light bulb finally going on?

  “That was you?” He slumped down on his haunches, mere inches from her. If only her stupid hands weren’t tied…

  Lindsay nodded meekly.

  “You… I wrote you letters after I left for college, didn’t I?”

  Lindsay fought to keep her feelings in check. No need to spook the prey.